chapter 39: Race against the bombs (IV)

The morning air was crisp, sunlight spilling over the streets. Kids ran across the playgrounds, their laughter echoing off the surrounding buildings. Shopkeepers swept sidewalks, the aroma of fresh bread and coffee drifting into the streets. Cars rolled by in orderly lines, commuters heading to work, and life hummed along in its usual rhythm.

Derek walked among them, blending in. Even though his leather jacket was worn and his hood pulled low, he looked like just another teenager navigating the city. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to smile at the carefree faces around him. Normalcy… It was rare, and he treasured it.

Across the city, families prepared for community events. Balloons were tied to benches, tables set with decorations. Music drifted from speakers in a small plaza where children played, parents chatting nearby. Everything seemed safe, ordinary, familiar.

And then it happened.

A sudden roar split the air. At first, Derek thought it was thunder, distant and out of place. Then the ground shook violently beneath him. Windows shattered in jagged shards, raining glass over the crowded streets. A deafening blast echoed through the city, swallowing screams in its wake. Fire erupted from buildings, smoke pluming into the sky like a black storm.

Derek dove behind a car for cover, heart hammering. The explosion had originated from the community hall, the place where Marcus, his foster dad, had been attending a morning party. A wave of heat knocked him to the pavement. He crawled forward, pushing past the dust and debris, eyes scanning the scene. The building was gone—nothing but rubble and fire where it had stood.

Screams pierced the air. Children ran blindly, parents desperately trying to gather them. People were trapped beneath fallen structures, some crushed instantly. Derek’s stomach twisted as he counted the casualties in his mind: hundreds. The chaos, the carnage—it was overwhelming.

Emergency sirens began to wail. Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances barreled into the streets, but the devastation was massive. Smoke choked the air, making it difficult to breathe. Derek pushed himself to his feet, his jacket scorched and torn on the left side, a jagged gash across his shoulder bleeding profusely.

He ran, weaving between burning cars and debris, toward where Marcus might have been. The thought of his foster father being caught in the blast sent adrenaline surging through him. Marcus…

But as he reached the remains of the hall, the truth struck him like another explosion. There was no sign of life. Not Marcus, not anyone inside. Derek’s chest tightened, a painful mix of guilt and grief pressing down on him.

Nearby, survivors were staggering through rubble, some injured, some screaming. Derek helped where he could—pulling a mother from under twisted metal, guiding children to safety—but his mind kept returning to Marcus. He couldn’t save him.

The number came quickly from first responders: 450 people dead. Hundreds more injured. Entire blocks destroyed. The scale of the devastation was incomprehensible, a tragedy unlike anything the city had seen.

Hours later, Derek sat in a stretcher, bandages pressed to his wounds, blood still seeping through the torn fabric of his jacket. Paramedics loaded him into an ambulance. His body ached from debris, burns, and cuts. His face was bruised, eyes shadowed from exhaustion and shock.

The news was already reporting. The live feed on a street-side screen caught Derek being wheeled into the ambulance. The anchor’s voice trembled as she spoke:

“…an unprecedented disaster struck the city today, as multiple explosions devastated key areas, including the community hall downtown. Early reports confirm that at least 450 people have died, with hundreds more injured…”

The camera zoomed in on Derek’s battered form. His leather jacket was shredded, half of it hanging in tatters from his shoulder. Cuts and bruises marred his face, but his eyes, though weary, still held a sharp intensity.

“…among those assisting in rescue operations, eyewitnesses report a young man wearing a black leather jacket. He was seen helping civilians amid the chaos. Authorities have not confirmed his identity, but some are calling him a hero. Others, labeling him the Cold Genius, claim he may have connections to previous criminal incidents…”

Derek’s lips pressed into a thin line as the report continued. He barely noticed the paramedics checking his vitals. Blood was sticky on his skin, and pain radiated with every movement. But he didn’t flinch. His mind was elsewhere—on the city, on Marcus, on the hundreds who had not survived.

“…emergency services continue to respond, but the scale of the destruction has overwhelmed available resources. Hospitals are operating at capacity, and officials urge citizens to remain calm and stay clear of affected areas. Reporting live from the scene, I’m Jasmine Ortega, Channel 9 News.”

Derek closed his eyes briefly as the ambulance doors shut. The sound of sirens, screaming, and the occasional crack of collapsing buildings echoed in his ears. He gritted his teeth. They don’t understand. They’ll never understand what it takes to stop this. But I have to keep moving. I have to stop whoever did this.

Inside the hospital, the chaos continued. Nurses ran through the corridors, patients moaning in pain. Derek was wheeled past shattered windows, the smell of smoke and antiseptic mixing in the air. Doctors and paramedics treated dozens at once, but Derek’s injuries were severe. He was conscious, but barely. The pain in his side, his bruises, and the burns from flying debris demanded his attention.

A young nurse looked at him, worry etched across her face. “You’re lucky to be alive,” she said softly, checking his IV line.

Derek gave a faint nod. “I… just need to…” he muttered, voice hoarse. “The city…”

She smiled faintly. “Rest. You’ve done enough for today.”

Outside, the news continued to roll. Images of the destroyed streets, crumpled vehicles, and the smoking ruins of buildings filled screens across the city. And amidst the devastation, Derek’s figure was unmistakable—a battered young man in a torn leather jacket, still standing against the chaos.

The day had ended in tragedy. Lives lost. Dreams shattered. But even as he lay in the hospital bed, bloodied and bruised, Derek’s resolve remained unbroken. His city was wounded. His people were hurting. And he would be there when they needed him next.